


‘My college experimentation phase started when I slept with Satan’: an examination of Lucifer as a figure of human desire and sexuality

by JeanLuciferGohard



Category: The Wicked + The Divine
Genre: F/F, Freeform, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Missing Scene, One Shot, remember that time that they were both fine and everything was fine? yeah me too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 23:53:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6632143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanLuciferGohard/pseuds/JeanLuciferGohard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A character study, of sorts.<br/>In which Laura Wilson may or may not be dreaming, but is definitely having a good time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	‘My college experimentation phase started when I slept with Satan’: an examination of Lucifer as a figure of human desire and sexuality

There’s a distinct possibility that this is all just...some kind of wish-fulfillment fantasy. She’s dreaming, Laura knows she’s dreaming. Lucifer is in Hell, or rather, in solitary confinement at Holloway Women’s Prison, and which makes more sense? That Lucifer Herself is...projecting the two of them into some kind of... _Inception_ -esque dreamscape after, what, two, maybe three _actual_ conversations worth of acquaintance? That this is some kind of _miracle_ or that this just a garden-variety teenage wet dream? It’s just...

It seems like she couldn’t have made some of this up.

Like:

The Devil looks smaller without the suit, somewhere between a bird-boned softness and something hard and lean and hungry. She looks almost translucent, in this light, pared down to nothing but half a pack of cigarettes and raw ambition.

Or maybe that’s just the cocaine. God knows it could be.

Or maybe He doesn’t. It’s hard to think like this, 4 am (are you supposed to be able to tell the time in a dream? She can’t remember) white-light and white sheets and Luci’s pale blunt fingernails skimming along the shell of Laura’s ear. She shivers, biting her lip and nuzzling closer into Luci’s hip.

“’s too early”

The Devil smokes, constantly, in every interview Laura’s ever seen, she smokes when she isn’t smoking, two fingers still curled around the nicotine that isn’t there; she’s smoking now, sheets bunched under Laura’s cheek around her waist and a smear of ash high on her chest. There’s three more butts in the ashtray balanced between her breasts and her eyes are thinned to lazy slits, almost not open at all.

“Being awake at _ungodly_ hours is rather the point, you know.” she murmurs distantly. “Job description. Devil herself. That sort of thing. ” Luci’s palm is papery and warm, almost hot as she nudges Laura’s face away further towards her thigh, before the jut of her hipbone against Laura’s cheek starts to hurt. “Go back to sleep.”

It’s hard to think like this, and Laura screws her eyes tighter shut, frowning. Either Lucifer is in Hell, or in Holloway Prison, or they are, both of them, together in this bed which smells like sex and feels like more money than Laura’s ever even dreamed of having, and God only knows which.

Or maybe He doesn’t. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Luci’s hand keeps drifting, stroking through Laura’s hair, over her shoulder, down her arm, and maybe none of this is really happening, but just in case it is, she rolls over into Luci’s hand and pulls it against her lips.

“ _You_ go t’sleep”

If this _is_ happening, and Laura hopes, Laura _hopes_ (or maybe it’s praying; the difference, at this point, is unclear) that it is, if this happening, then she has never felt so warm before in her life. If this is happening, if it happened, then about two hours ago, the Devil herself ate her out with such abject and utter devotion that, terrible jokes and metaphysical implications aside, Laura Wilson may have found religion again.

Lucifer is in Holloway Prison or in Hell, which could, conceivably (maybe), be a spotlessly white bed with ludicrously high thread-count sheets, and Laura Wilson really _really_ wants to believe at least _some_ of this really happened.

Above her, Luci snorts. “No.”

“What is this?” Laura mumbles into her wrist, “You have two years to live so you can’t sleep in case something good happens kind of thing?”

“ _I don’t wanna close my eyes / I don’t wanna fall asleep / cause I miss you, babe, and I don’t wanna miss a thing”_ Luci croons, warm and rich, rasping faintly at the edges; it’d be beautiful if it didn’t sound so _mean._ It’s almost beautiful anyway. Her cigarette flares cherry-yellow-red against the white of the room; the smoke, when Luci exhales, is white too. “Maybe. I doubt it.” Her head is tipped so far back her neck almost looks broken. Luci’s eyes are closed.

Then they aren’t, her eyes are open, blue, then red, then blue, then her ashtray is dangling from from her hand, then it’s discarded somewhere Laura can’t quite see and the Devil Herself is sliding down and pulling Laura up along the length of her chest. It’s cheating, Laura wants to say so, it’s cheating to cut off conversations like that, but it’s so _warm_ , and the sheets are _soft_ , and Luci shimmies down while she’s tugging Laura up to meet her and it’s making the points of her nipples drag against Laura’s own and _fuck_. If this is happening, it’s a fucking _trip_ , ‘my college experimentation phase started when I slept with Satan’; it’s a _trip_ , sounds almost like something you’d have assigned as a reading. “‘My college experimentation phase started when I slept with Satan’: an examination of Lucifer as a figure of human desire and sexuality”. Religious studies, World Mythology, are suddenly popular again; Laura imagines sitting in her weekly discussion-section, telling everyone that while medieval scholars may have posited very philosophically interesting rationalizations of the fall of Lucifer, _vis á vis_ his former role as God’s beloved, they failed utterly to consider the crucially important fact that the Devil goes shivers, turns pliant and breathless if you so much as breathe on her nipples (tan, pebbled, flatter than Laura’s but a little wider; Laura feels like maybe she’s staring but can’t bring herself to care).

“It’s the strangest fucking thing,” Luci murmurs against Laura’s neck. Without the mascara, her eyelashes are blonde, nearly invisible. “I keep thinking I recognize you from somewhere. Who are you, Laura Wilson? Secretly a superstar?” She huffs, softly, mouths at the hinge of Laura’s jaw. “I’m being sincere, even. Promise.”

Laura Wilson is burning up from how badly she wants that to be true, this to be real, Laura wants, she wants, she _wants._ Laura twists her fingers into Luci’s hair with one hand, twists them into the sheets with the other. Her lip goes white between her teeth, and if she can hold on hard enough, everything is going to be _okay._ She is going to _make_ it okay. Luci rolls and arches languorously against her. It’s _good._

It’s all gonna be okay.


End file.
